


Not going gently into that good night

by KipDigress



Category: Silk (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mending Bridges, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8818240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipDigress/pseuds/KipDigress
Summary: Series of one-shots set in the few months after the series finale: from Clive being elected head of chambers to Billy's funeral. Each considers, or follows a different character.





	1. 'Not doing the right thing' or 'Similarities'

CW wasn't good at doing the right thing. And she wasn't doing it now, sitting at her desk drinking vodka as if it were orange juice, sulking because she'd not become head of chambers. She took another gulp.

She was fifty-two, not ancient, but getting on; at least she still had a job. After all, prosecuting was her thing, so she wasn't that badly off. The criminal bar was where lives and fortunes, were made and broken. It was what they did everyday as lawyers: gamble someone else's life or livelihood; win or lose and move on; they'd all perfected it. Except Martha. But it wasn't about Martha, it wasn't about doing the right thing. Win or lose and move on. She was pissed as hell that Clive was head of chambers - she didn't really like him - too cocksure and arrogant. Sure she would have been out of place if Martha had returned Shoe Lane to a defence only set, but she considered Martha as a friend, not just a colleague.

Not that there was anything she could do about it. She'd be bitter for a while, then Billy would die, Harriet would prioritise Clive and maybe Amy; John and Bethany would somehow try to manage the rest of chambers; life wasn't fair. She'd be cynical and bitchy and take it out on Clive as much as she dared because it wasn't just her who'd suffered; only her ambitions had been thwarted. She still had a place in Shoe Lane: as unprincipled, promiscuous, prosecutors; she and Clive were remarkably alike.

It didn't do to dwell on those things. Martha's coat was gone by the time CW had reached their shared office; she couldn't have been more than a minute behind her.

She took another gulp.


	2. 'One good deed' or 'In the end, at the death, I told the truth'.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micky visits the Thames one last time.

His work was done; not just as a solicitor or a grass, but as a person. At the end he'd told the truth and done his best to save one person. When he'd seen Billy Lamb again, he'd already decided what he was going to try to do, it was just a matter of waiting until the right moment arose. That had come quicker than he'd expected: Alan Cowdery leaving and Billy dying, major changes at Shoe Lane, when better for becoming completely corrupted? When else would a wholesale re-evaluation of values be possible?

They loved her, both of them, that was clear to see. Billy would do his best for Martha Costello to his dying breath - and trusted her with his life - quite literally seeing as only they had known at first. Micky was undecided about Clive. He could not doubt the sincerity or even the depth of Mr. Reader's feelings, but he did doubt his loyalty and sense and feared that he would be an ambitious bastard, ruining Martha in the process. Clive Reader was already corrupted - more than Lady Macbeth, even. It would break Martha's heart to lose them both, but it would save her if she made the decision to leave one to manipulate and be manipulated - scheming practice manager; he didn't deserve a woman as good as Martha Costello if he couldn't earn her trust - and the other - well the grave comes to us all.

The night after the trail finished, the night they elected their new head of chambers at Shoe Lane, the night he had chosen to step out of his prison cell was when she would have to decide. He hoped she would heed his plea, but he knew the chances were slim - after all, she did hate him, and rightly so. He glanced over his shoulder - minutes left in this life - and returned his attention to the river. The river and the city, full of unmentionable depravity and just the smallest glimmer of good - all he'd ever known. Seconds. There on the north bank, a glint of blonde hair - no cigarette - it could have been anyone, but he was sure it was her.

The truth had won. He left her future to God and submitted himself to His judgement.


	3. 'Because I won't be here' or 'I love you, miss'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thoughtful Billy in a hospital room.

Nineteen, nearly twenty, years, that was how long Billy Lamb had know Martha Costello, and only once had he called her by her first name. He'd lost track of the days, weeks, since she'd vanished. Somehow he'd known she would go. It was normal: he could count the times that she'd known something about herself before he had on one hand; that she was pregnant; that the father was Mr. Clive Reader; that was two, were there more? or was it just one time and two facts? He dozed off trying to think through the last four and a half years.

"Martha!" he called out and woke sharply from reliving those fateful seconds with Jake at the Thames end of Middle Temple Lane.

"Mr. Lamb, is there anyone you would like us to contact for you?" the nurse checking his monitors updating his records asked. Billy cleared his throat, embarrassed.

"No. Could I have a glass of water, please?" He sat up while the nurse poured water from the jug at his bedside. "Thank you."

"No worries," said the nurse, as she took a last look around and, satisfied that everything was in order, left.

Billy reached for the iPod he'd bought for when he'd had his first scan and turned it on. He'd asked Martha to put her 'desert island disks' on it or eight hours of music that were exactly her. In the end it was sad that all he had was a name, three photographs and eight hours of music. But he wouldn't ask for her. She had made the right decision; God, but he could have happily murdered Mr. Reader when he found him shagging miss squeaky-knickers, the more so because not only was he being unfaithful to Martha, but he was doing it in Martha's presence. Martha had, after all, lost more than him and his end was nigh. To lose one friend and your life was bad enough, but inevitable; to lose the three people who have always been there and whom you trust implicitly, job and family in a matter of days; Billy couldn't bear to think about it.

He'd written his will shortly after the doctors had made the diagnosis and he hadn't changed it. Anything of worth went to his family - money wasn't important so he bequeathed it where it was expected to go, the thousand pounds left to Jake was as close as he got to mixing practicality with sentiment. He hoped his nephew would make good use if it, perhaps get a nice engagement ring for Bethany. Nearly everyone in Chambers was remembered; Amy and Harriet being the two most prominent exceptions and that was because they had not joined chambers until after he'd written the will and, on getting to know them, he hadn't felt inclined to alter the previous arrangements. The West Ham photo went to John; CW got his second best bottle of Scotch (unopened), it was possibly not the best decision for either chambers or Miss Warwick, but Billy couldn't bring himself to care; Mr. Reader got his best bottle of Scotch. And Martha?

Martha. Loyal, fiery, steadfast and true. Bold Bolton lass daring London to throw its worst at her. And she didn't break; bent just enough to weather the tempest then straightened back up again. Alan and Martha were his executors; he'd been tempted to appoint Clive too, but in retrospect was glad he hadn't. His two friends. Both brilliant, both committed as defence counsel; so they had each taken white ribbons from time to time, but even Billy could understand that needs-must for getting silk and sometimes it was the defendant who needed to be faced with the impossible, unscalable wall of either cold, hard logic or stubborn, precise passion.

And now, with Martha vanished, would she act as his executor? He didn't know. A part of him hoped that she would stay away and not face the faces from her past that she would surely meet if she took up her responsibility. Part of him hoped that she would be found; would gain closure on his death through being able to mourn and closure on Shoe Lane through being able to say 'goodbye'. Either way, it didn't matter. Billy turned over and composed himself to doze off again.

One day much like the one before and the one before that. Pain, sometimes mild and discomforting, sometimes sharper and more bothersome, came and went. Alan and David visited, faces clouded with the beginnings of grief. They knew too well - David knew too well - what it was to lose a loved one. And Alan would lose a friend. Jake visited, sometimes alone, sometimes with Bethany. Usually cheerful, sometimes quieter: he was growing up fast. Billy encouraged him to talk of the future, his hopes and plans. It was refreshing.

Occasionally John would drop by. He was quiet and didn't say much or stay long, but in the cool, collected moments Billy understood all the visits: some born of affection; some from affection mingled with respect; and one, John's, a testament to respect. Some would say it was unprofessional to visit one's erstwhile boss in hospital; Billy would call John's visits supremely professional. He made a note to tell him next time and slept.


	4. 'Being the best we can' or 'A clerk'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake meets the Cowdery's somewhat unexpectedly.

Jake was the most frequent of Billy's visitors. He came by every day, if only for a few minutes on his way to boxing, his presence cheered Billy more than his other visitors - perhaps it was because he was family - blood family, not sweat and tears family - or perhaps it was because he'd been with his uncle when the woman he'd loved for nearly twenty years vanished.

What his uncle didn't know was that Jake had been trying, unsuccessfully, to contact Martha. Despite not being at Shoe Lane any longer, he knew he wasn't the only person wanting to talk to her. But her phone went straight to voicemail; her flat was 'to let' and if she'd ever left a home address with Chambers, it was in the keeping of Mr. Cowdery or Billy.

It pained him to see Billy, lying or sitting in his hospital room, not entirely helpless, but in pain. Clive never visited - Billy moaned about that, but he never spoke of Martha and Jake was not going to bring her up without Billy starting that train of conversation.

One Thursday, it must have been about a month after Clive was elected as head of Shoe Lane chambers, Jake walked through the hospital's mean entrance just as Alan and his son, David, were leaving:

"Sir, David," Jake greeted them, expecting to pass on with no more than the brief recognition.

"Jake, have you got a minute?" Alan asked.

He glanced unnecessarily at his watch, "Yeah, sure."

"I'll meet you at the car, Dad," said David.

"No, son, there's no need."

Jake just saw the glint in David's eye; there was another person touched deeply by both Billy and Martha.

They bought drinks - Alan had coffee while the two younger men opted for orange juice. They sat at a table in the hospital canteen. Silence stretched.

"Sir..." Jake began at the same time as Alan.

"Jake..."

Jake looked from father to son and back.

"Dad, he needs her; you need her." David's voice trailed off and Jake wasn't entirely certain that he'd heard the last part correctly.

Alan cleared his throat.

"I said to Billy, not ten minutes ago, that I wouldn't do what I'm about to do." He pulled a folded slip of paper out of his jacket pocket. "Two days after the election, I received a note from Martha. She's staying with her mother. Make whatever excuses you have to, but get her here by tomorrow night. Billy hasn't got long." He handed the slip of paper to Jake who quickly glanced at it - house number and a postcode only; enough to find somebody - before tucking it carefully into his pocket. David glanced nervously at his father before speaking:

"But don't tell anyone -"

"Not Bethany, not Billy, not your mates at boxing. No one," Alan said sternly, picking up where his son left off.

"My lips are sealed, sir," Jake made the promise, knowing that he would keep it until Billy, Alan or Martha released him.

Jake drank the last of his orange juice and stood: "I'd best get going, see Billy for a bit before Bethany comes."

Both Alan and David nodded and Jake left them.

As he sat by his uncle's side in silence, Jake remembered when he'd found out Billy was dying.

"John told me," he said suddenly. "He'd found your letter and called the test results line. We each have to be the best we can. That's what I'd said just before he told me. We told Bethany a few days later. John was going to tell Harriet when he first found out, but said that it somehow didn't seem right." Billy snorted; Jake continued: "The three of us kept it a secret till Bethany spoke at your tribunal."

"Good man," Billy growled, smiling slightly. Then lapsed into silence again, broken when Bethany arrived.

"Thank you," was all Billy said when she took her place next to Jake. She looked blankly at Jake. "For keeping quiet once you knew."

She said nothing, but stood and kissed Billy's cheek, earning her a wan smile.


	5. 'Who am I?' or 'Move on? There's just been a miscarriage of Justice, move on?'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha moves forward and looks behind.

I ran away. For the first time in over twenty years, I ran away from a fight. It didn't matter that I couldn't win; it didn't matter that I'd failed Sean. Nothing mattered. Chambers was tearing itself apart: Alan now a judge and devoting his time to his son - who could blame him; Billy dying; Clive - I refused to go there.

So I ran; ran to the home I didn't have; to the home I'd run away from once before. Mum wasn't impressed when I showed up on the door step with nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn't go back to the London flat, just gave Mum an inventory of what was to be left and sent her off with some removers we knew. She brought my car back and it's now sitting in the garage, gathering dust and rust.

I wanted to do nothing; to wallow in my grief, but my overdraft was still there, so not working wasn't an option. It took a few weeks, but I ended up in charge of the pupillage scheme for a large defence set up in Manchester. It was strangely quiet compared to London as I didn't have a lot of court dates. I often left before six, and rarely stayed beyond seven; for the first time in twenty years I had free time. But not being in court was a mixed blessing.

After too many arguments with Mum I found a flat in central Manchester. But that wasn't before a surprise visitor came and turned my world sideways again. Alan Cowdery was, unless he was determined not to show any sort of favouritism, be a man to be trusted. For various reasons: respect, and the fact that I had nearly a month's worth of fees yet to be paid, I gave him Mum's address. I was therefore far less than impressed when young Jake, Billy's nephew, turned up on the doorstep at quarter to eight one morning.

Mum shouted at me, with a fair few expletives thrown in, to get the door. I wasn't eager, but considering how I'd invaded without warning, I threw a jacket on over my pyjamas and complied.

"Jake?"

"Yes, Miss."

"You can't be here." He stood there, waiting in silence. "You shouldn't be here."

"I'm here, Miss," he stated simply, and I marvelled at how he'd grown up; once garrulous, he was now grave and unperturbed. Care marked his face and I knew it was for his uncle.

"Billy?" I almost gasped.

"Not asking after you, Miss."

"So why are you here?"

"Because he isn't asking after you."

"And why is that significant?" It was too early in the morning and I was sure I didn't want to hear the next bit.

"Because he asks after everyone else, even Harriet."

We stood in silence for a moment. I didn't want to say anything because I knew if I did I would be back in London by nightfall and I was coward enough not to want to face the questions and the stares.

"You'd best come in, Jake."

He followed me into the house, I made coffee and left him in the kitchen while I put on something less casual than pyjamas.

Jake got halfway through his second cup, before he broke the stretched silence:

"Will you come, Miss?"

"Jake, you don't have to call me 'Miss'; we're a long way from the Bailey. I'm not even working as a barrister at the moment."

"Sorry, Miss, habit." Another long silence. We could hear Mum moving around up stairs; the top step creaked and Jake repeated his question.

"You will come, won't you, Miss?"

There was no way that I could answer that question so I asked one of my own. "How's Bethany?" Jake knew what I wasn't asking him: how was chambers.

"Bethany's good, she's pretty busy, spends a lot of time with CW. You know, going to court, making sure she has everything for her cases."

"Being a second junior, you mean?"

"Yeah, I suppose. I think Harriet wants her out of the Clerks' room - too close to Billy and all that - and it's a good excuse: she earns her keep and keeps an eye on CW."

I had to laugh, sharp and bitter, yeah, Caroline, disappointed in ambition would not be drinking water in court. How long she would stay at Shoe Lane was a good question; I was fairly sure Harriet saw Lady Macbeth as a liability, regardless of her ability as a prosecutor. I'd run; CW would be pushed.

"Jake," I took a deep breath, "I'll come and see Billy; but promise me not to tell anyone from Shoe Lane."

"Alan said you'd probably stipulate that, said to let you know that he will see you, 'whether you will or nil', I think was how he phrased it."

"Just so long as it's after I've seen Billy."

"Yes, Miss."

Twenty years of last minute notice of cases half a day's drive from London made packing easy. Ten minutes later I had packed, explained to Mum that I was going to be away for a couple of days, and for the first time since I'd been back home, grabbed my car keys.

"Come on, Jake," I said when he hesitated to get in to my car.

"Miss, you know everyone at Shoe Lane knows your car?"

"No time Jake, do you want me to see your uncle or not?"

We joined the rush hour traffic. It was slow and I knew we would reach London almost as soon if we had waited for another half an hour or so, but we both knew we would feel better for getting going. It was raining heavily and the motorways down to London were unusually busy. It took us just over five hours of driving to reach London, add another hour for the three coffees that were keeping me from making the four accidents that we passed on the M6 become five and it was past three p.m. before we reached London. Jake had phoned Alan once we'd fairly started. I could't follow the conversation; Jake's half was almost entirely in monosyllables.

Jake directed me to a road near Regents Park where we left the car. He passed me a permit to put on the dashboard, I glanced at it: it was a visitor's permit for one of the houses. I didn't ask whose house it was, just put the permit where it would be visible. We walked briskly along the Euston Road, saying nothing. Jake had explained that Billy had very few restrictions on his visiting hours, so we headed straight to the hospital.

I was fine until we walked through the second set of double doors of the hospital. Then reality seemed to hit and I felt the butterflies dancing in my stomach. The last time I had been so nervous was my first Silk interview. But pride, or stubbornness, forbade my faltering step and Jake never knew that I almost turned and ran, again.

A lift, eight floors and several corridors later we paused by a door to what was clearly a private room. Jake quickly glanced through the round porthole-like window in the door and came to stand close to me.

"He's either asleep or dozing, Miss. I won't come in with you."

"Thank you, Jake," I managed a small smile before I gently pushed the door open and stepped into the room. It was almost bare, clinical, devoid of any sign of life or care except the fact that the bed was occupied and the chart attached to the foot of the bed was not blank. As I stepped further into the room, I saw the chair and the cabinet. The chair was empty, but the top of the cabinet was covered with tokens.

I guessed that they were mostly from chambers: the West Ham photo - John; Billy's favourite whiskey glass, now strangely filled with flowers - Alan and David Cowdrey; a little fluffy bear comically dressed in a suit and wig - Bethany. There were also framed photographs: one that had been on Billy's desk for many years, his estranged wife and children; Billy and Jake celebrating Jake winning his first boxing title - just a small thing, but for a sixteen year old it was something to remember; I almost cried when I saw the last photograph. It was of me and Billy the first day I had come to chambers and my name plate by the door read 'Martha Costello QC'. We'd just walked up Middle Temple Lane and Billy had got Jake to take the photo. It had sat on my desk for three years, but I'd left behind it when I'd run away from chambers. Who had been responsible for that particular photograph being next to Billy's bed I couldn't guess and wouldn't ask.

I quietly sat down in the chair. Unlike so many hospital chairs, it was padded and had arms and wasn't too uncomfortable. I waited.

Billy slept, for how long, I do not know, but after a while, he became restless and started muttering. I heard my name, progressively clearer till it was quite distinct. I took his hand and held it as I had when, as I now knew, he had just found out about his cancer. He calmed and waked, his blue eyes slowly focussing.

"Martha?"

I didn't cry, I felt I could have, but I didn't.

"I'm sorry, Billy," I finally managed.

"No, Miss, you did what was right; Micky was right, that's why." Words failed him.

"What did he say?"

Billy didn't answer immediately. Usually I knew when he was keeping the truth from me. Now I wasn't certain. It was complicated, Micky was dead - his murder had made the papers even in Manchester, Billy would be soon, and they both had foreknowledge enough to face the reality of their mortality; neither able to hide. I couldn't begin to guess what was going through Billy's mind.

"Billy," I prompted.

"He said two things: that he was, and I quote, 'saving Martha Costello'," he squeezed my hand when he saw that I was about to burst out with some objection to Micky's high handedness or even God-complex, so I let him finish, "He called it 'doing the right thing for once'. I'm glad he did." I mulled it over for a bit.

"Thank you, Billy."

"My pleasure, Miss," He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, I saw the same look he'd given me that day in Middle Temple Lane, when he'd asked me to hold his hand shortly after he'd found out about his cancer. I dreaded his next sentence.

"Why are you here?"

"Jake."

"I told them not to."

"Alan was the only person who could have contacted me."

"Alan," Billy sighed.

"I had nearly a month of fees owing," I was defensive.

"Alan," he repeated, "not Clive."

"No, Alan," I couldn't, wouldn't, say Clive's name.

"Go on, Miss, give a dying man a break, speak the plain truth. Or do I have to say it for you?" I stayed silent, in this mood, Billy would talk, force me to see the truth I was avoiding, just as Micky had. "Very well. You gave Alan your details because Mr. Reader broke your heart," I turned away, but Billy kept a firm hold of my hand and continued relentlessly. "I can't tell you when you two fell in love, I can't be sure that it wasn't the day you first met. But there you are. Mr. Reader said something at his Silk party, I won't ask what, but it seemed to be your truth was finally acknowledged. You know I think relationships between professional colleagues the devil's own invention. Did you never wonder why I never said anything about you and Mr. Reader?"

I didn't say anything, Billy was opening wounds that I was trying to let heal. If I said anything, I would burst into tears, and he didn't need that.

"I don't have the time to waste waiting for you to answer my questions, so I will continue," Billy's voice was feebler than when he'd started. I offered him a glass of water which he accepted and then continued: "Who always had your back? For twenty years? Who would put aside ambition, even turn down career consolidating, if not career making, cases to act as your junior? Who always told you the truth, no matter how hard it was?"

I knew exactly of whom he spoke, but still refused to say the name.

"Who would you fight for to the death? Who's professional reputation would you save at the risk of your own? Who could you turn to after a bad day in court?" Billy paused and drank some more water, "Who, and this is perhaps the key, who trusted you not to judge and therefore didn't try to be anyone but himself?"

"Billy, please."

"Give a dying man a gift, Miss, answer."

"I can't," my voice broke, but I still held the sobs back. Billy's hold on my hand relaxed and then tightened.

"You did right, Miss, to leave. But when I'm gone, who will you have?" He lapsed into silence, I was so busy thinking through the implications of all the questions with a single answer that I almost missed his whispered: "That's not important now, for now, just stay with me."

Silence returned to the room and I heard his breathing slow as he dozed off. A nurse came in quietly, asked whether I wanted coffee and left equally quietly when I declined. I saw Jake's anxious face once or twice in the door's window, but he didn't come in. Eventually, around midnight, I dozed off too.

My awakening was rude: I heard my name called and my hand was crushed.

"I'm here, Billy," I said once my original disorientation had faded.

"I know, Miss," he murmured. I offered him water again, but he waved it away with a faint smile. After a moment he spoke again, "Do you know why we lie to you?"

"Usually because you want to protect me, or, if it's a client, because if they didn't, I wouldn't be able to represent them."

"You're partly right, Miss, but that doesn't explain Sean, or the police tribunal you effectively won. Nor does it explain something else." I could only partly follow Billy's reasoning. He really did know me better than I knew myself, "I love you, Miss," he said, as he had so often said before when I'd won a particularly tricky case, or had somehow managed to fit in yet another case.

"You were talking about lies, Billy."

"Oh, yeah. Everyone who lies to you has one common motive; they want you to think well of them; don't ask me what it is: you face the grim depravity of human nature every day and yet nearly everyone you meet wants to keep it from you."

"I fee there's a 'but' here, Billy."

"Yeah, you know me well enough," his said with a faint chuckle. His voice was fading, but he still refused the water I offered him. "Yeah, there's a but." He met my eyes for the first time since I'd woken, I could see the pain and worry lurking in their depths. "But there was one exception. Mr. Reader never tried to hide from you. Not when he started taking white ribbons behind my back, not when he thought, or knew, that you were barking up the wrong tree. Remember the extradition case you won?"

"Yes, Billy, I remember." I also remembered all the cases we'd worked on together, whether we were co-defending or on opposite sides. I didn't know what was more precious to me, the memories of when the truth had been spoken between us and the latent nobility of his character had ensured my relief, or when his ambitious streak had the upper hand and he told me the brutal truth - betrayal though it often felt at the time. It was a curious association: the central hall of the Royal Courts of Justice, where, as Micky Joy had said, no one cared about the truth, was where Clive told the truth - but only to me.

We were silent for a few minutes, Billy seemed to doze off, so I was surprised when he spoke again.

"Make me one promise, Miss."

"That depends on what it is."

"Please, just promise me."

I sighed, how could I refuse? "Yes, Billy, I promise."

"When I'm dead, promise me that you'll see Mr. Reader."

"I won't seek him, I can't do that, but if our paths cross, I won't avoid him."

"Thank you, Miss."

Slowly, slowly, time passed and Billy's breathing grew fainter. The nurse game and gave me a reassuring smile, "He's peaceful." I nodded, holding back tears. Billy died at five forty-one am. I sat silently while doctors and nurses came and went. When they were gone, I knelt down next to the bed and cried, leaning my head against Billy's still, cooling body.

Sometime later that morning Alan, David and Jake came and half-dragged me to the cafeteria where they made me drink two coffees and eat a tasteless pastry. I was grateful, but still too upset to do anything to show my appreciation but to docilely follow where they led.


	6. 'Because I'm an ambitious bastard' or 'It's me, Martha'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW's is more influential than anticipated.

Clive Reader had never been good at keeping the personal and professional separate. He'd slept his way through law school and later chambers. Martha had been one of the few who'd turned him down, until euphoria and alcohol in Nottingham. But even then he hadn't blurred the boundaries as he had with Niamh or George. As for Harriet, he wasn't even certain what had prompted him to react to her all too obvious flirting. Martha was being hard on him, and Harriet wasn't. He hadn't realised what he'd done by betraying Martha until days later. The evening he became head of chambers was the high point of his career, but all he could remember were two sentences:

"Who am I?"

"Where's Martha?"

And the feeling of absolute hopelessness that had come when he realised that Martha had, just like that, walked out of Shoe Lane without a backwards glance, and only Billy had known where to find her.

He had only visited Billy once in hospital. It was the following morning and a single glance said it all: Martha was gone and not coming back and his breach of faith was not considered a minor factor by the man who had overseen much of their careers. Clive had hung his head, tears welling at the corners of his eyes.

"Go," Billy had said and he'd gone.

That had been two and a half months ago. Since then, Clive had tried to act as if nothing had changed, but Harriet knew, knew from how he would not talk to her, how he brushed her off, tried, and surprisingly successfully too, to keep her at a distance. In court he was as good as ever, in chambers as expected now he had succeeded in becoming head of chambers. But outside of work he had changed. To own the truth, he had used the very fact of becoming head of chambers, and the subsequent change to a prosecuting set, to ensure that outside of work didn't really exist. A perfect, ready made excuse he thought. No one to ask what he did with his evenings and weekends; it was perfectly well understood that he was working at home, and the results were there to prove it. There was no one to know that he spent almost as much time with an untouched glass of whisky in his hand, staring blankly ahead, missing his best friend, as he did working.

When he heard of Billy's death, the sadness only deepened. CW dragged him out for a drink three evenings later, when he would have much rather have gone home and... he didn't know what he would have done, cried? Unlikely.

"To Billy," CW had said as she raised her glass of red wine and Clive followed suit.

"To Billy," he echoed flatly.

"Cheer up buck," CW said after a moment's pause. "You're where you wanted to be."

"Yeah."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I miss Martha too, but you can't have everything in this life."

"Don't," he ground out.

CW took another sip of wine, "Don't what? Don't mention Martha's name, because as long as she isn't mentioned you think no one knows how it's tearing you apart? Or perhaps don't mention her name because it reminds you of what you did."

"Caroline, please."

"OK, I'll let you be. On that count."

Clive sighed, what was CW going to rub his nose in next?

"Harriet."

"No."

"No what? no comment, no discussion, what? I'm not patient, Clive, one or the other, because I'm pretty much of Billy's opinion in both cases."

"OK, Harriet," Clive decided it was the less painful, or at least the more appropriate discussion.

"Permanent?"

"At Shoe Lane? No. Personal? No."

"It was over the minute you realised Martha had been there?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

They finished the bottle of wine, talking occasionally on indifferent matters.

When Clive got home, he spent a couple of hours working on his current case, an apparently unimportant theft that, on further investigation, had had turned into an effective gang war, but only one party was anything like a gang, before he poured himself a glass of whisky and settled on the couch. He felt better than he had for weeks. He hadn't known until he told Caroline Warwick that Harriet would soon find herself out of Shoe Lane, with outstanding references for efficiency, and having made the decision, his heart felt lighter.

The entire of Shoe Lane chambers was at Billy's funeral. But then it seemed that half of the clerks and lawyers in London were there, so their presence wasn't as obvious as it might have been. Jake and Bethany were near the front with Alan and David, Clive found a seat about halfway back. The chairs were comfortable, straight-backed and armless, but soft. But the delicacy he would need to not upset anyone reminded Clive of the only time he'd been in a Canadian canoe: slightly unstable, with an undesirable dunking if he leaned too far one way or the other. He wondered idly how the courts were functioning with so many members of so many chambers in one place during the day.

It had been difficult to clear the schedule of every member of Shoe Lane, but he'd managed it, with help from John and Bethany. Harriet had objected, but Clive was firm: they would all go, they owed Billy that much respect for the first twenty years of Shoe Lane.

The service was simple. Jake's breath caught several times in reading his short piece, he kept a firm grip on the lectern that held his notes. Alan spoke without notes, he twisted his hands and kept his gaze on his son. Clive wasn't really listening until the end of Alan's reminiscence.

"And now, I may be about to make an enemy, though she has reluctantly agreed to speak. She probably knew Billy better than even I. Martha Costello, and then we'll let Billy rest in peace." There was a general stir. Martha was well known and her sudden disappearance had been much talked of. Decisive footsteps were heard as she walked down the right hand aisle to take Alan's place at the lectern. She gave Alan a hug and turned to face the crowd.

Clive thought she was paler, and slightly thinner than when he's last seen her, but her bright blonde hair, pale face and bright red lipstick were as he remembered. By God, she was beautiful, he thought. She was wearing unalleviated black, which made her seem even paler. Clive was used to her wearing black, for work, but he couldn't remember her ever wearing nothing but black. As Alan before her, she spoke without notes. Clive put it down to them both being lawyers.

"When Alan asked me to speak here, I said no. You all knew Billy well enough not to need me to say anything about who or what he was in his professional life; and his personal life belonged to himself and his family - his flesh and blood family, not his work family." Her voice was clipped, as if she were speaking in court, but Clive knew her well enough to detect the waver, not of tears, but of fear, that ran as an undercurrent. "But here I am, making a speech at the funeral of the man who oversaw my entire career at the criminal bar." Clive kept his head bowed, instinctively aware that to meet her eye at this point was to destroy her, all over again.

"Billy believed in defence; he was a clerk for a defence chambers; I know not why, and the how is simple enough. But he was also defensive: if what he valued was threatened, he fought back. How like a defence lawyer is that? Apart for the fact that lawyers are paid to fight back, Billy wasn't.

"Billy told me he was dying weeks before anyone else knew, but he'd known for months before that. Billy kept secrets, his secrets, our secrets; but not to use against us, he tried to protect us. In the end, we had to protect him." Clive cautiously glanced up and saw Martha look at Bethany who nodded. He suspected that the reference was only meaningful to those from Shoe Lane, but it didn't matter. He waited for her to go an and wasn't surprised when she said little more.

"So today, while we mourn, we also celebrate. We remember a man who did not always do the right thing, who did not always tell the truth; but who meant well."

There was a short silence as Martha let them digest her words. When the nods of agreement, the blowing of noses and the wiping of eyes had passed, she spoke again.

"I hope you will join us, his families, for a drink and a chat to remember a life well lived. And now," and Clive knew this time the quaver in her voice was due to sadness, "because Billy Lamb, clerk and life long West Ham supporter."

'Bubbles', as played before every West Ham home game, pounded through the building. Everyone stood, and sang along to the well known tune. The music quietened where it usually stopped, but the singing carried on: this was Billy Lamb that they were bidding farewell to, no one was going to be half-hearted. Martha didn't sing, just stood by Billy's coffin, tears falling fast. Jake, Bethany, Alan and David formed a protective circle around her. Clive considered joining them until he saw CW step forward, he was not going to argue with her again, not about Martha.

The wake was held in the adjoining room, but there were so many people, that a fair number collected a drink and then returned to the room where the service had been held. Clive chatted distractedly with solicitors and barristers. Daniel was there, as was Niamh, and a couple of other past pupils. He didn't feel like flirting with Niamh though, just congratulated her on her progress which, though unremarkable was steady: she was earning her stripes on her own merit.

Eventually, after he had slowly drunk a glass and a half of wine, he saw Martha return from the room where the service had been held. CW was close to one side, Jake on the other. She picked up a glass of orange juice and Clive thought she said "I'm driving" to CW, but he couldn't be sure; Martha was the lip-reader, not him. He gradually made his way through the thinning crowd, pausing when spoken to, but never for long.

With the various interruptions, the time it took to cross the large room felt like an age, but Cilve's watch told him it was only a matter of minutes between Martha entering the room and him standing near the group surrounding Martha. He didn't quite know what to say, Everything seemed trite: both the commonplaces of the situation and the commonplaces of meeting. He wished he could hug her as after the Stephan's trial, but he'd broken that trust and didn't know where he stood.

It was CW, strangely, who gave him the opportunity to speak to Martha.

"Still here, Clive?" she asked, her voice tinged, as it often was, with malice.

"Yes, CW, I'm still here." He turned and saw Martha standing and watching him. He dropped his gaze, ashamed. "He was a good man, Billy," he said sadly, "I will miss him."

"How is prosecuting?"

Clive's head snapped up and he met Martha's eyes.

"Good, chambers is doing well. Things are settling down and we're busy. But I guess Alan or Jake or CW has already told you that."

"They have, Clive."

Clive nodded silently, he couldn't answer her question until it was fairly asked.

"I'll let you two gossip in peace," said CW and wandered off with Jake to see Alan. At first they didn't say anything, but slowly walked to the edge of the room where there was less chance of being interrupted.

"How are you doing, Martha?"

"OK, I think, but you haven't answered my question."

Clive sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. "How do you think Martha? Half of chambers is still getting over the shock of losing Billy, the other half are overworked. We've so much work coming in."

"Harriet really is efficient."

"Yes, she gets full marks for that," Clive said grimly.

"But?" Martha prompted.

"She won't stay long."

Martha didn't say anything. Her eyes wandered slightly.

"It's me, Marth," he said, letting the plea creep into his voice.

"And that's meant to make it alright?"

"No, I know it can't or won't, but..." Clive didn't know where the sentence was leading and let it trail off. Part of him wanted to sit down and cry. Cry that he missed his best friend, admit that he was an idiot and didn't deserve more than what had happened, he didn't really know. "Will you come with me, please?" Martha looked unsure. "It's just, we need to talk, and I'd rather no one heard." Clive was aware that the was laying himself open to a sharp rejoinder, and was surprised when Martha turned on her heel and led the way to the hallway outside.

She sat on a chair and Clive pulled one over to sit opposite her.

Silence.

"Clive," Martha said.

"Yes?"

"You said we had to talk, so talk."

"Martha," he pleaded.

"No, Clive, I haven't time for this."

"OK," Clive took a deep breath, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. "I miss you." He met her gaze and continued, "every moment of every day. I've kept our office. CW is in Alan's office, but your desk is where it always has been. Harriet's fuming, but it doesn't matter, we need a new senior clerk anyway." Now he'd started, he just rattled on. "I was an idiot, Marth, trying to change chambers, no, changing chambers was fine, but changing chambers without thinking of you. No one else matters, Marth, not any longer." 

"I can't come back, you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I know," Clive was resigned, "but I wish you could."

Martha fumbled in her bag and pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen. She scribbled something and handed it to Clive.

"If you ever need a good defence lawyer..."

"I'll act as your junior, if I can." They sipped their drinks for a bit, people were leaving quickly now, afternoon sessions in court started at two and it was now gone one o'clock, they had to head back to work. "I love you, Martha Costello." And this time, he added silently, I will keep faith.

"You know that's what Billy used to say?"

"Well I probably mean it slightly differently to him."

Martha nodded, and Clive saw the tears coursing silently down her cheeks. His own eyes filled in response. He stood, reached out a hand and was surprised when Martha accepted it and allowed him to pull her into a hug. He sniffed, breathing in her smell and crying at the same time. It was a moment stolen from another time.

Ten minutes later, the only person who could have known that anything had changed was dead, but bridges, though not mended were not the shattered remains they had been.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is inspired by Dylan Thomas's poem 'Do not go gentle into that good night'.
> 
> Chapter titles are quoting, paraphrasing or otherwise related to the particular character focussed on in the chapter.
> 
> Characters are obviously the invention of the BBC.


End file.
